


Lights gone low

by d1sclosure



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Arranged Marriage, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Steter Week 2019, not Scott McCall friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 07:17:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20078296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d1sclosure/pseuds/d1sclosure
Summary: Liam plants a hand on his shoulder, pulling him up short.  “Scott,” he says earnestly.  “I am telling you this because I care.  And also because you’re my Alpha, so.Respectfully.  You need to think long and hard about how youwantStiles to react and how he isactually going toreact.  I mean, seriously.  You’ve pretty much just sold our Emissary off to a guy you’ve never even spoken to, to solve a beef we have with a pack Stiles has literally never met.  If I were him. . .” he trails off, shaking his head.  “Well.  You should probably renew your health plan, is all I’m saying, ‘cozdamnis he going to make you hurt.”





	Lights gone low

The hinges on the door shrieked as it swings shut behind the retreating figure of the most formidable woman Scott has ever met. And that includes his mother.

He waits long enough to be certain the other werewolves were out of hearing range. Only then does he let his head fall to the desk with a solid thump as he groans at the injustice of it all.

He is so screwed. Like, majorly. If he survives this, he’ll be a fucking _messiah_.

He hit his head against the table—once, twice. The pain is poor recompense for the migraine that has been steadily working overtime for the past half-hour. There’s nothing for it. He’s just going to have to suck it up and… and own up to his decisions and… 

Christ. He’s dead. He is so, so dead. 

He sits up straight and tries to pinpoint the exact moment the meeting had gone to shit. It had started off fine. All very formal. They’d talked. She’d smiled. They’d talked some more and then… suddenly they weren’t just talking. They were _talking_, with hidden meaning and sub-context and _everything_.

It was horrible.

Talia Hale is _scary_.

He’d… he’d been _shanghaied_. That was it. He’d been shanghaied into this agreement. Coerced. Led on. _Persuaded_.

His eyes drop down to the innocuous document lying before him.

His signature silently condemns him, the ink having long since dried on the dotted line.

He whimpers.

“Shit.”

“Yep,” says Liam, where he sits rigidly in the seat to his right. The beta had been silent throughout the meeting. So silent, in fact, that Scott had largely forgotten his fellow pack member was there. Not that Scott blames him. He certainly wasn’t the only one to see the full shift Talia Hale was rumored to be capable of prowling beneath her skin.

But that doesn’t change the very real likelihood that he’s a dead man walking. 

“Stiles is going to kill me.”

Liam nods agreeably. “Oh yeah.” He still hasn’t looked away from the door.

Scott eyes the innocent frame of wood, half afraid Talia and her beta’s will magically reappear and demand his first born or something.

Worst part: Scott isn’t sure he has the strength to deny her.

He can still hear her final words. The way she’d stood from the table, calm and composed. The way she’d gathered her papers and tapped them together. She’d paused. ‘This is good,’ she’d then said aloud. It had sounded like a truth, an undeniable facet of the universe falling into place. ‘For both of us. With the Argents coming back, us wolves have to stick together.’

And then she’d left, strolling out of the office, seemingly without a care as her beta’s brought up the rear. 

There never would be a good time to discuss him having once dated the daughter of the Matriarch. Not that he’d known it at the time. A little warning would have been nice, though.

He hadn’t much appreciated the crossbow bolt through the leg.

Ah, well.

Stiles had found it funny, at least—

Oh god. _Stiles_.

“Bags not telling Stiles,” he says.

Liam laughs so hard he almost topples from his chair. “Yeah, right,” he chortles, clutching his sides. If he laughed any harder, he’d been wiping tears from his eyes. Scott’s betrayed expression—tinted with the unique queasiness of well-warranted terror—took the cake. “Oh man,” he hiccoughs, sucking in a fortifying breath, “If you think I’m gonna go up against Stiles for you, you’re delusional.”

“I could order you,” Scott tries. He knows it’s weak.

“You can try,” Liam replies, turning to eye him doubtfully. He knows it, too. “I personally wouldn’t bet on it working, but.” 

Scott sighs. He climbs to his feet. There’s nothing left for them here but the echoes of an agreement he already regrets and the cloying aftertaste of a rival Alpha getting precisely what she wanted.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” he asks, waiting while Liam slides on his shoes.

“I dunno, man.” Liam shrugs, falling into step beside him. “No denying it’ll be nice to be able to go to the store without tripping over some stupid territory dispute or other.”

“Hm.”

“And the back up will be nice. Those fucking wendigo’s almost got Isaac last time.”

“Yeah.”

“But _worth it?_” Liam wonders, brows furrowing. “I really couldn’t say.”

They stop outside the office so Scott can lock up. The slide of the key he twists it is so _final_. Scott wished there’d been another way. Another option. Another anything. He hated that they’d had to resort to a treaty with the resident pack but Liam was right. It wasn’t sustainable to keep fighting for territory. 

Speaking to Lydia about it had been pointless. It didn’t matter that they’d technically been there first, didn’t matter that this was their home. The Hales had held Beacon Hills longer. Even when they’d moved away it had still been _theirs_. Ten years hadn’t changed that. Now that they were back. . . well.

Let’s just say neither pack was best pleased with the presence of the other. Particularly since Scott had refused to concede to another Alpha, and one that he didn’t know, to boot. Stiles, Lydia, Liam, Isaac and Erica and Boyd—hell, even _Jackson_—had agreed with him. They were _pack_. They didn’t want some foreign alpha coming in and ordering them around.

But he is the alpha. He has to put his pack first and. . . this was the only way to do it. To press a ceasefire on both sides and make it stick.

“Stiles will understand,” he says, voicing his thoughts. “He will. He—”

Liam plants a hand on his shoulder, pulling him up short. “Scott,” he says earnestly. “I am telling you this because I care. And also because you’re my Alpha, so. _Respectfully_. You need to think long and hard about how you _want_ Stiles to react and how he is _actually going to_ react. I mean, seriously. You’ve pretty much just sold our Emissary off to a guy you’ve never even spoken to, to solve a beef we have with a pack Stiles has literally never met. If I were him. . .” he trails off, shaking his head. “Well. You should probably renew your health plan, is all I’m saying, ‘coz _damn_ is he going to make you hurt.”

  


* * *

  


“I’m going to kill him!”

The front door slams against the wall.

Having heard the fury that is Stiles on the warpath coming a mile away, Peter doesn’t react except to move all the sharp objects out of the way.

“Hello to you, too.”

“I’m going to crush him under the heel of my boot until he’s nothing but a gummy pile of _dickbag_ and then I’m going to feed him to an _anthill_ and only _then_ am I going to. Kill. _Him_.”

Okay. So there is something wrong.

Setting aside the cream with a sigh, Peter wipes his hands off on the dishcloth currently tucked into the back-pocket of his jeans and follows the sound of Stiles digging through the hallway closet.

“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “You don’t wear boots.” And certainly not for lack of trying. God knows Peter had long since given up trying to get him out of those ratty converses and into a decent pair of footwear.

“No,” Stiles agrees, voice muffled from where his head is shoved through the coats. “I don’t. But you do. And they’ll do _perfectly_.”

“And the ant farm?”

“Danny.”

“Danny Mahelanie owns an ant-farm,” Peter echoes dubiously.

At that, Stiles shuffles back and removes his head from the inseams of the coats, if only to look over his shoulder with an expression that communicates _are you stupid?_ with startling clarity.

Peter loves that expression. Just not when it’s directed at him.

“No,” Stiles says slowly, eyes narrowing. “But he probably knows a guy who knows a guy who has one.” He turns back around and goes back to his digging.

Peter watches him for a moment longer—those jeans truly do cling to Stiles’ ass beautifully—before he decides that he needs to sort this out before Stiles’ temper goes and ruins the evening they had planned. He cycles through his options. Discarding the ones that he’s learned simply lead to a lot of useless yelling and very little pleasant make up sex, he settles on the simplest. And the most obvious. He asks what he’s looking for.

“My bat,” Stiles mutters, taking ahold of a shoebox filled with miscellaneous junk and sizing it up like he thinks his bat might just fit inside.

“It’s in the wet room,” Peter supplies and pushes off from the doorframe.

Stiles looks up, then, confused. “What’s it doing in your wet room?”

“You were washing it?” Peter cocks an eyebrow. “In case you’ve forgotten, you got it very. . . thoroughly. . . bloodied. The last time you went out.”

“Huh.” Stiles frowns. “Right.” He glances at the mess he’s made. His brows furrow like he doesn’t know where half of the stuff he’s pulled out even came from, then he stands, brushing his palms off on his jeans. “Well. I’m just gonna grab it real quick then I’ll be out of your hair—”

Suppressing a laugh, Peter reaches out and catches Stiles by the arm when he makes to squish past him. “Stiles,” he says, manhandling until Stiles is pressed up against him, back to chest, and he can prop his chin on Stiles shoulder.

“Peter,” Stiles mimics in a wobbly falsetto, features screwing up.

Peter nips his earlobe in admonishment. “Don’t be a shit.”

There’s a power here, to be able to hold Stiles like this. It thrills him. He knows what Stiles is capable of. He’s seen in first-hand and he’s heard it told. If he desired, Stiles could have him flat on his back and dead to the world, seizing as what amounts to about eighty-thousand volts rip through him. Yet he doesn’t do a thing to shake Peter off. He _lets_ him. Peter honestly doesn’t think he will ever tire of that.

“Tell me,” he continues, resting his cheek against Stiles. He can’t help the smile when Stiles squirms away, bothered by the stubble he hasn’t gotten around to shaving off.

“Not right now,” Stiles eventually says, slumping in on himself. “I’m too angry to even—” he flailed a hand “—you know, _word it_, right now. Can we just. . . eat. Dinner. Please?”

Peter considers it. He sees no drawbacks to this plan. “Alright. But you will tell me later.” Then he draws away and starts towards the kitchen.

Stiles trails along behind him, dragging his feet across the floor with a frown. “Fine.”

“I can’t help you hide the body if I don’t know what we’re hiding it from, darling.”

“You and you’re stupidly perfect sense.” Stiles flops into the barstool at the counter but he’s smiling now. “What are you making?”

“Carbonara.” Adjusting the heat, Peter picks up the spoon and looks over his shoulder. “You’re favorite. Here. Taste?”

Humming as he does so, Stiles half crawls onto the counter to chase after the spoon when Peter’s pulls it away and. . . that’s that. The topic of Stiles anger is brushed aside and they fall into the familiar routine of preparing dinner together. Glasses are put out and topped off with a red wine they both like. The table is set around unpacking the dishwasher when the plates they want aren’t in their draws. Stiles eventually bats Peter out of the way to take over the pasta—something he insists Peter never gets right—and he preens when Peter presses up against him, tucking his hands in Stiles front-pockets and moving them to the beat spilling quietly into the apartment from their radio.

It’s sickeningly domestic. Five years ago Peter would’ve called bullshit and turned himself in for impersonation. Five years ago he hadn’t met Stiles. A lot can happen in five years. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Dinner is a peaceful affair. Playing footsie is childish and something Peter will never let go and a handful of times it threatens to become something more until a passing thought starts up a new line of conversation.

By the time they circle all the way back around to the problem at hand, the dishes have been stacked by the sink and they’ve migrated to the couch. Where their feet are stretched out on the ottoman, Stiles’ legs are thrown over Peter’s and Peter’s arm is resting on Stiles’ shoulders. It’s a familiar position. One born of a desire for comfort and an opportunity to physically reinforce their bond when neither of them have the energy for sex. 

“You aren’t going to kill Scott,” Peter says, breaking the quiet.

Stiles pouts, though he will forever deny doing it. “God, it’s like you know me,” he grumbles. “And why not? Killing Scott is a fantastic idea.”

“I do know you,” Peter reminds him. Then, “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

“Will I, though?”

“You will.” Of that, Peter is certain. “Mid afternoon by the latest, if you’re feeling particularly vindictive.”

Stiles maintains his trembling fury. “You don’t even know what he’s done,” he says, tone tight and frustrated.

Peter squeezes his shoulder and turns his head to press a kiss to Stiles brow. “So tell me.”

Lips thinning, Stiles looks away from him. There’s nothing on the wall—dominated as it is by the mantle and electronic fire-place—so as far as avoidance tactics go, it’s not that great. His fingers yank and fuss with the hem of his shirt and his leg jitters with pent up energy. Peter waits him out, knowing how this goes.

After what feels like forever, Stiles blows out a harsh breath and finally speaks.

“He wants me to get married.”

Peter was not expecting that.

“To me?” He can’t help but ask, eyes dropping pointedly to the discrete black band decorating Stiles ring finger. Surely McCall isn’t that oblivious? Their engagement isn’t exactly _new_.

But Stiles is shaking his head. “Oh no,” he says darkly. “Nope. He’s got somebody else in mind. Apparently,” and here he pauses, be it to lend emphasis or choke down his anger, “I make a wonderful bargaining chip. It’s to be a marriage of _convenience_.”

Peter goes rigid. Almost with a mind of their own, his claws pop out and burst through the couch stuffing. “What.” 

“Yep. He’s gone and made some deal with some Alpha I’ve never even met and sold me off like some godforsaken chattel. Can you believe this? I’m his Emissary. His _Emissary_, for fucks sake. And he just—” Stiles flapped his hands out in front of him “—you know? Like, hey. Thanks for all the shit you’ve gone through to protect my sorry ass but I totally don’t need you anymore so here. Go toddle on off to these perfect strangers like some war-bride and I’ll stay over here making happy families and stupid smoochy faces with Kira while you’re over there getting it on with some violent brute that probably smells like stale beer and thinks _personal hygiene_ is a _holiday destination_ in _Europe_!”

Voice having grown steadily louder until he was flat out yelling, Stiles shoves away from the couch. Peter watches him pace the carpet and fist his hair with hooded eyes.

This… would not do. At all. If McCall thought he could do what he want without the input of his _mate_, he had another thing coming. 

Also, Peter is going to kill him.

“Thank you!” Stiles exclaims. Did he say that out loud? “That is exactly what I’ve been saying!”

“So you have,” Peter allows. Sitting up straight, he braces his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. “When does he want you to meet your _intended_?”

Stiles shoots him a disgusted look. “This weekend.”

“Damn.”

“What?”

Peter sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “My sister’s called me back for the weekend.” The timing couldn’t be worse. He catches Stiles look. “It’s mandatory,” he explains. “Some pack thing or another. Same as usual. I haven’t been home enough. The pack bonds are fraying. The children don’t remember what I look like blah, blah, blah.”

While he spoke, Stiles had come closer but he hadn’t reclaimed his seat. Instead, he’d thrown a leg over Peter’s and clambered into his lap, draping his arms around Peter’s neck.

His nose is scrunched up in distaste. “Eck.” Such a profound statement. . . “That’s sucks. Sorry.”

For some reason, Peter feels the need to expand on that. Patting Stiles’ thigh, he shifts until he’s comfortable. “It’s not that I actively dislike her, you know.” He tips one of the buttons on Stiles’ plaid shirt into catching the ceiling light. “I just can’t stand being around her.”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“Not really, no.” He sighs, long-suffering. “My life would be so much easier if it was.” He falls silent, thinking. Neither of them say anything. The synthetic crackle and pop of the fire display is loud above the steady heart-beats and the soft rush of air as they breath.

After an age, Peter asks what Stiles has in mind for handling McCall’s latest fuck up.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replies with a sigh. He shrugs, like whatever he decides is a foregone conclusion. “I need to speak to Scott. The jerk texted me and now he’s not answering my calls, so. There’s that. Then. . .” he trails off, distractedly playing with the small hairs on the nape of Peter’s neck. “We’ll see. I’m not going to go through with this, obviously. Scott may be my Alpha but. . . he doesn’t get to make these kinds of decisions. Not without _asking me_ first.” He pauses, scowling, and Peter speaks up.

“What about the guy?”

“Oh.” Stiles blinks. “Nah. He’s gonna have to die.”

  


* * *

  


Three days. For three days, Scott had blocked his every phone call. He had ignored his every text. He had avoided every unnecessary interaction with his mother.

He had even managed to convince the rest of the pack to play dead, so to speak.

More fool him, really. It just gave Stiles more time to stew and stew he did, in the boiling froth of his hellfire fury. He’d make sure Scott rued the door he tried _marrying him off_ if it is the last thing he does.

He would not rest until his wrath had been sated.

And he’d already spoken to his dad about it. The Sheriff was totally on board with busting him out of prison if it ever came to that. 

(Stiles would be forever grateful that Peter and John had bonded over baseball trivia and yelling insults at the refs on TV during football matches.)

So, because he would not put it past Scott to fabricate some far-fetched scheme to avoid him at a meeting they were both in attendance for, Stiles arrived two hours early and now stands alone on the platform of the underground train-station.

The place had been abandoned for as long as Stiles could remember and then some. Dust and filth coats every surface, stuffing up the little clean air that trickles through the tunnels. Droppings from the squirrels nesting in the eaves has piled up here and there in mounds, so old and dry it barely stinks. Gouges from stray animals of all kinds stare creepily from the dirty concrete walls and floors.

All in all, Stiles thinks it is a terrible choice of venue for a pack-alliance-convergence whatever and now it’s warded to the nines.

Yay Team Spark.

Scott will probably throw a fit when he learns of the measures Stiles has included but that’s his own problem. If he thinks Stiles is just going to carpet the way and open his arms for _friendlies_—he scoffs. Friendlies. _Sure_—then Scott needs a serious wake up call. It’s Stiles _job_ to handle this sort of stuff. He protects the pack from the outside. It’s what he _does_ and still Scott—

Oh. Speak of the devil. His ears twitch as his proximity alarm is triggered. Not long now.

Faint footsteps echo through the deserted platform and then Scott is hesitantly stepping into the light thrown off from the lanterns Stiles had set up. Liam flanks him on his right, Erica on his left and Boyd and Isaac bring up the rear. Lydia and Jackson are absent, off galivanting around Barcelona on their honeymoon.

It’s probably that, and the fact that Stiles has been away on the other side of the country, studying in New York, that has allowed Scott to get away with this insanity. 

Stiles will have to make sure he’s present for the earful Lydia is doubtlessly going to give their Alpha. And boy, can that girl _scream_.

But for now, he a best-friend to terrify.

He steps forward, letting his teeth show when Scott jerks backwards. “Hello alpha, my alpha,” he purrs, and the pack shudders. Even Erica, who specializes in intimidating people in her spare time.

Scott swallows and nervously laughs. “Stiles,” he says. “Hey. Good to see you.” He falters at Stiles’ unchanging expression. “Um.”

“Hm.” Stiles prowls closer. Let it never be said that nothing _stuck around_ after that fiasco with the Nogitsune all those years ago. “I wish I could say the same.”

“Stiles—”

In a flash, Stiles is in his face. The wolves barely see him move. He’s there then gone again in a heartbeat, flickers of shadow that only come out when he is seriously _pissed_. 

“_What were you thinking?_”

“The pack needs—”

“The pack needs to grow up,” Stiles hisses. He looks over Scott’s shoulder, focusing on the downturned faces. Only Isaac meets his eyes, and even that is fleeting. “All this. Over territory disputes? _Are you kidding me?_”

“You don’t understand—”

“I think I understand just fine! You’re the Alpha, Scott. I mean, you’re a goddamned True fucking Alpha and you couldn’t hold the territory? What the fuck have you been doing?”

“I’ve been doing my best, Stiles,” Scott snaps, agitated now, and he pushes his Emissary away. “You’ve been _gone_. You don’t get to judge me.”

Stiles stumbles back. Then he draws himself up tall and the look he levels at Scott has the rest of the pack retreating a good four paces. “I’ve been. . . gone?” he questions; slowly, drawing it out. And then his features twist and Scott loses track of the next few seconds. All he knows is that, when it’s over, he’s flat on his back wheezing in pain while Stiles crouches over him and shouts, “I left to make a life for myself!”

Panting, Stiles bares his teeth. “Why can’t you _accept_ that?”

Scott, in an infrequent flash of intuition, does not fight against his Emissary’s hold. He raises his hands in supplication. “I do,” he says, defends, almost. “Stiles, I do. Honestly. I just—”

“This is about Peter, isn’t it?” Stiles interrupts. Like the wind, his anger changes direction, an imposing sheet lashing against everything in it’s path. “Christ.” He pulls away. When he laughs, it’s broken. “I love him. Hear that? I. Love. Him.” He shakes his head and a weight settles in Scott’s stomach. He never meant for it to come to this. Just, when Talia suggested it, suggested a marriage to seal their alliance. . . Stiles had been the obvious choice. 

With one last look, Stiles climbed off of him. He didn’t offer a hand up, didn’t offer anything. “You’ve never liked him.”

“He’s not good enough for you.”

Stiles pauses, hand’s dropping down by his sides. He raises an eyebrow, lips thinning and turning down. “Shouldn’t I get to decide that?” he asks. 

Scott opens his mouth to answer, to say _yes_. To say _of course_. To say _I’m just looking out for you, there’s something wrong with Peter. He’s manipulative. You can’t trust him. Why don’t you see that?_ —but he doesn’t get the chance.

Stiles twitches, as though listening to something far away, and then he glances at the entryway leading up to the outside and straightens up. 

“They’re coming,” he announces and just like that its like a mask comes over him. He relaxes, shoulder’s loosening and stance easy. The iciness in his eyes warms to a distant distractedness, present but bored.

Not for the first time, Scott worries over how easily Stiles can change to suit the situation.

Not for the first time, he wonder’s how often Stiles does it around him.

“So who is it anyway?” Stiles asks, rocking back on his heels, and his easy-going question has the pack drawing closer. Scott can still smell it in the air. The anger. The tension.

He’s aware that he and Stiles will be discussing this later, but for now he’s just glad Stiles has chosen not to drag it out in front of another pack.

(He should know by now that Stiles would never do anything to endanger the pack.)

He breaths a sigh of relief and levers himself up from the ground. Brushing himself off, he misses the dark look in Stiles’ eye, misses the sardonic twist to his mouth.

“Don’t tell me,” Stiles says, barely missing a beat. “You have no idea.” And then he continues, as if reading his cues from a script. It’s then that Scott realizes his friend is simply playing his part—the Hale pack must be in hearing distance by now. Of course they would expect a worried, slightly panicked pack-member. Leave it to Stiles to passively insult the neighboring pack. “Oh my god. I’m being catfished, aren’t I? Just wait, the dude is going to be a literal troll and then I’m going to wake up the morning after drugged to the gills and missing my spleen.” 

A pause. Erica chuckles hesitantly. By now, everybody with werewolf hearing can hear the footsteps heading their way. Scott counts at least four people to their six. A show of strength, then. Stiles ploughs on, seemingly heedless of the pack repositioning themselves: “And then my body is going to turn up five years later after an ongoing Missing Person’s Investigation that’s just on the cusp of being dismissed and I’m going to rise from the freaking dead just to haunt your sorry ass. Every time you go to take a piss, I’m going to say, ‘I told you so’. Do you want that to happen, Scott? Do you?”

A quiet laugh reaches their ears. Scott identifies it as belonging to Talia as he turns to meet them and—

Oh, fuck. This could not be happening—

“You must be Stiles.”

Stiles literally freezes. Very slowly, as if moving too fast will shatter the image, he turns on his heel and stares at the smug, smirking face of one very familiar wolf.

Standing apart from his pack, slacks neatly pressed and crimson V hugging him just _so_, is Peter Hale.

Stiles’ mouth drops open. “Hale,” he says, comprehension dawning. “_Oh_. You mean—_that_ kind of Hale. You—” he glances between Peter and Talia and makes another obnoxiously loud _oh_ sound. He nods, commiserating. “I get it now.”

Then his eyes narrow, the pack shifting awkwardly behind him and Scott a tense line of disbelieving frustration to his left, and his mouth thins to an unimpressed line.

“Really? That’s what you wore to meet your arranged mate?”

If possible, Peter’s smirk widened, leaping over into the territory of _smarmy_, and he shrugged. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he broke away from his pack, easily side-stepping Talia’s grabby hands when she made to pull him back and started towards Stiles. “I did when I heard it was you I was meeting.”

“Aw,” coos Erica.

“What the hell is happening?” whispers Isaac.

“Sap,” mutters Stiles.

Boyd is a stony wall of silence and Liam observes, speechless.

In that time, Peter has reached Stiles’ side and wrapped an arm about his waist.

Stiles thumps his head off his well-formed chest.

Scott has no words.

“Well,” Peter says, smile so fake it wouldn’t pass muster on the face of a teen-bop movie star line-up. “This has been delightful. Talia.” He looks over at his sister and alpha, then begins steering Stiles towards the exit. “Let’s never do this again. It really is quite embarrassing.” 

Talia makes a choked sound. Scott briefly considers it might be outrage before he’s realizing that Stiles is walking away from him and they still have to talk about this. 

“Stiles?” He starts, but Stiles holds out a hand.

Pulling on Peter’s arm, Stiles stops and counts off on his fingers. “Don’t call me, don’t text me and don’t Facetime me. I don’t want to talk to you. I am going home, where my fiancée is going to fuck me through the mattress while we pretend this never happened. You two,” he waggles a finger between Scott and Talia, where they have somehow drawn together to share in their disbelief, standing between their respective packs. “You two can go fuck yourselves.”

And with that resounding statement, he turns on his heel and stalks away, Peter nary a step behind him.

The last thing they hear is Stiles peevish saying, “Honestly, it’s like you all turn into dicks when you become alpha.”

Scott thanks all that is holy that he never hears Peter’s response.

He just knows it would have been something dirty.

Liam, thank god, is the one to breach the silence.

“So,” he says, clapping his hands together. “How ‘bout that, huh?”

The expression on Talia Hale and her assembled pack is, in one word, unamused.

**Author's Note:**

> Three down and four to go.
> 
> How are you guys liking it so far? Hit? Miss?


End file.
